


The Bee Master's Pattern

by Taz



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees & Beekeeping, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, Watson has retired to a cottage on the Sussex Downs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bee Master's Pattern

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [honey bees, come build in the empty house](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7793) by coloredink. 



 

John consulted the man at the station about the best way out of town and was warned that the weather was going to turn. But the guide book he’d bought in London said that the distance to the manor was short, a pleasant walk on a country lane, and the only clouds that he could see were feathery white mare’s tails far to the south.

He hadn’t thought to ask from which direction the weather would turn and, after an hour there was a thick grey blanket rolling in from the west, rapidly cutting off the high blue sky.

Wind-blown dirt stung his face and if felt like somebody had swapped his light backpack for a bloody sack of bricks. He admitted, since he was alone, that he’d overestimated his strength. Frankly, his leg hurt like hell. It would have been further to turn around than go on, so it was another painful half-hour before he arrived at the Manor gates. They were rusted open and weeds were growing beneath the bottom rail and encroaching on the unpaved drive.

The letter that had arrived with the key to the cottage had told him that no one was home. In any event, he didn’t feel there was any particular need to say thank you.

He hiked another painful circuitous mile before coming to a turn-off onto a narrow track that went up and over and there, finally, there was Bee Hive Cottage staring blindly out to sea. Despite the charming name, it looked unbearably bleak with its back to the humps, its weatherboard sides and all of its windows shuttered.

All he had known when he’d accepted the offer of the furnished cottage was that it was was older in its fabric than the manor house. Two up and two down with fireplaces in every room, and a kitchen and bath added in 1920s.

He got the door open as the rain arrived sideways… **t** here should be electricity…feeling around in the dark, he found the switch, and Thank God! it was on because he wasn’t up to building a fire.

Looking around for somewhere to drop his pack, he realized what a mishmash of cast-offs from the manor and odds-and-ends other tenants had left behind he was going to have to make do with. The table and chairs in the kitchen were plain and serviceable but there was no couch, just a hard-wood settle that looked uncomfortable as hell, although, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find it was worth a small fortune on _Roadshow_. At least there was one comfortable looking arm chair. He was even more grateful to see the night-storage heaters. But, as for the one bed upstairs, it was iron-framed war surplus and he had to brush a cloud of dust off the striped ticking off before he could spread his sleeping bag on top of it. The springs complained every time he rolled over.

Next morning, he stepped on a black beetle in the bath and almost called the whole thing off.

Adding insult, there was nothing in the kitchen to eat and heaven only knew how long the teabags had been sitting on the shelf. Nonetheless, he rinsed the kettle, dumped a pile of dry brown frass out the set of blue china, and made a cup.

Only when the tea was cold and it couldn’t be avoided any longer, he opened the front door and went out. It was shockingly bright out and that convinced him that the first thing he had to do to make the place habitable was to get some light inside. As he walked around opening and hooking back the shutters, butterflied flew up out of the tall grass.

Then there were the barn and the shed behind it explore. He found the mower but the petrol can was empty and the farm car’s battery was dead. It was obvious when he opened the bonnet that something had been keeping house in it. That made his second task to clean the accumulation of hulls, seeds and fluff out of the engine-well.

Mid-morning, a transit van brought the boxes with his bits of gear, and all of the books that Mycroft hadn’t wanted, and he caught a ride with the driver back into Exmouth.

In his pocket was a list of things that you don’t give more than a passing toss about in town: pillows, mattress covers, Fairy Soap, salad cream, and a toaster…all the comforts Mrs. Hudson had provided, convinced that the two them would starve to death in rancid squalor, if it had been left to him and…

The driver, Neal, was chatty and told him that Mrs. Baker, the ‘widow owns the farm three miles over,’ was already expecting him to come to her for milk, butter and eggs. And she did good cheese. He was a medical doctor, wasn’t he? Too bad. What that one wanted was a vet. But then you’re one of a sort, aren’t you?

Yes.

Ex-serviceman, that is.

Yes. He got it.

Ridiculous to resent it, considering what had been all over the front pages.

In Exmouth, he arranged for BT to come out and talked to a mechanic. He had lunch at the cyber-café, sending an e-mail to Lestrade: _Send me a copy of SAS Survival Handbook yesterday_.

After hitching home with the grocer in the afternoon, he managed an acceptable tea of cream crackers, cheese and pickle. Washing up afterward he could see birds outside the kitchen window. They looked busy, flying into the eaves of the barn with bits of grass and twigs in their beaks. Some of them had dark glossy heads and some of them were speckled brown. He wondered what kind they were and remembered there’d be a book in one of the boxes with a green cloth cover…

John had been staring at the tops of the cars passing on Baker Street below, when Mycroft had said, “Do you know anything about birds, John?”

The two of them had been sharing the task of cleaning out the bottom shelves of the bookcases. Most of the books had been the kind of thing your mother kept because your great-great uncles’ bookplate was still glued to the endpaper; deadly beyond dreary, but Mycroft had had to go through all of them, sorting and commenting.

John had given a perfunctory no to the question. Then, because Mycroft was still waiting for something, had added: “Fish got to swim, and birds got to fly.”

Mycroft had looked pained and, rather waspishly, said, “Well, here’s _British Birds_ , you’ll want that, as well…” And dropped the book on the pile to come down.

A week ago…

John spent the evening opening boxes. After he’d put his own things away, made up the bed, and spread the plaid rug on the easy chair, he sat down to see what other fascinating volumes Mycroft had saddled him with.

There were books on history, historic murderers— _Jack the ripper_ —someone, with a spikey hand, had glossed _Idiot!_ over and over in the margins—famous poisoners, poisons, tobacco, forensics, cyphers, medicine— _A _Modern Persecution, or Insane Asylums Unveiled__ —religion, law, animal husbandry, apiary—a _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_ —everything but astronomy. It looked like the harvest of an insatiably literal and restless mind…a hundred years ago. None of it was going to be the least bit useful, but he shelved the lot and broke down the boxes.

He spent the next week getting the car running and learning to manage the mower. It was physically exhausting, at first, but he still found it difficult to sleep; the bedsprings squealed every time he moved; moths knocked at the windows; he missed the whirring commotion of city lights and cars.

Thursday, he woke from a fading dream, piss-proud and feeling restless.

Remembering Neal’s snigger, he drove over after breakfast to see what the Widow Baker was about.

She was blonde and quite attractive, but whatever he imagined might happen, wasn’t going to, because Mrs. Baker had a way of making it perfectly clear without saying a word, looking right over his head, she didn’t need anything from him except his money which he could put through the letter box; she would leave the milk and cheese in a crate by his drive.

On the way back, feeling like an ass, he pulled over and pounded his fist on the steering wheel until it hurt. Home, he fixed a cup of tea and sat down in the easy chair to drink it. Then, after days of silence, the phone rang. The shrillness ripped him apart and, next thing, there was a brown stain on the daffodil wall.

One of the little china cups lay shattered on the floor, but he couldn’t recall throwing it.

Two weeks later, though, he felt as if he were getting things in hand. He’d learned to recognize a few of his neighbors to wave at when their cars passed. The grounds had been mowed and trimmed. While working, he’d noticed a profusion of wildflowers covering the whale-backed hills, and growing along the road beds, and he’d begun to sense the deeper background hum of unseen living things.

It was hardly going to be an exciting life, but he had known going in and, at least, he wasn’t entirely cut off from civilization: he had the internet. Lestrade emailed _Congratulations on bending British Telecom to your will. Seriously, so you still want that book?_

One day he noticed a high-pitched cheeping coming from the eaves of barn. The racket became constant and he discovered it was wise to pay attention when the air was heavy, and the adult birds worked in a frenzy to carry grubs and worms to the cracks in the masonry. It meant a storm was coming.

It was one of those leaden afternoons that Emma Baker called to tell him that his bees were making a nuisance of themselves.

 _His bees?_ He’d seen the hives on the edge of the property but with most of the land, except for the parcel on which the manor and his little keeper’s cottage stood, being deeded to the National Trust…

Since when were they _his_ bees?

Since the day he moved in; why else did he think it was called Bee Hive Cottage?

And what was he supposed to do about it?

“Call Dick Yeardley,” Mrs. Baker finally snapped. “He’s the swarm collector.”

He made the call and fired an angry email at Mycroft: _Bees? No!_

In return, he got: _It’s in the lease, Doctor. Have you been drinking? Read the book._

He looked at the book, found the language impenetrable, and went out to glower at the hives, taking a cup of tea with him.

There were ten white stacks sitting out of the wind at the foot of the humps; they reminded him of nothing so much as dilapidated council housing. Some of the inhabitants shared the same entrenched suspicion of strangers. Bees came straight for him, even though he was just standing there.

They were curious about the sugar in his cup but he hadn’t known that then, and it was unnerving having them zipping around his head and his hands. One of them landed on his wrist and he swatted it without thinking. It flew into his cup where it buzzed hysterically and then curled up and died. He couldn’t make himself stop staring at the tiny golden-brown body floating in the cup, until he felt the pain like a burning match-head on his palm.

He ran back to the cottage for tweezers to pull the barb, but the only thing he had to treat the welt with was bicarbonate of soda. It was a shock that first sting. His hand swelled to twice its normal size and he spent the night drinking; tears and snot ran down his face; rain poured down outside. And, early the next morning, hung-over, he got up and went to meet the swarm collector under the crabapple tree in Mrs. Baker’s yard.

The reason she’d been so upset was obvious: bees, thousands of them, were a dense fizzing brown bolster wrapped around one of the tree’s lower limbs.

John was appalled, but Yeardley, who had to be in his 70s, just sprayed the whole clump with sugar water and knocked it into a mesh sided box with a rake handle. It took the old man less than half an hour to round them up, working bareheaded and barehanded the whole time.

When he was done, Mrs. Baker, who had stayed inside her screened porch, said, “Good job, boys,” and invited them both for breakfast.

The only thing he’d done was stand around, nursing his swollen hand, but John heard himself say yes; he was sick of his own cooking.

They had talked about bees. Emma Baker had a keen interest; she ran a farm; she was allergic. But to Yeardley, whose family ran the meadery in Exmouth, they were a life-long obsession, and John was quickly made aware that such swarms were more than likely at that time of year if bees aren’t managed. That particular batch had simply outgrown their hive and flown off in search of new accommodations. It wasn’t likely they’d have stung anyone who didn’t attack them first…

Attack? You mean like swatting them?

Exactly like swatting them; they’re fast little buggers. And what did he want to do with that swarm? Sell it?

Could he do that?

Yes. Or establish another hive. And all of the other hives would need to be checked; they might be about ready to abscond as well.

By then, John had read the lease: the bees, ten hives of them, were the historic responsibility of the cottage. There was nothing for him to do but arrange for Yeardley to bring his lost girls home that afternoon, along with a new hive.

John spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon on the British Bee Keeper’s Association website. By the time Yeardley drove up with the errant swarm and a bill for services rendered, he had a head full of new words— _propolis, royal jelly, worker, drone, super, deep…_ He’d grasped that a deep was the part of the hive where the bees raised their brood and that supers were the penthouses on top of the deep where they built honeycomb.

When they went out to ‘hive’ the swarm together, Yeardley carried the new deep, along with his bag of tools and John toted the swarm, hoping they hadn’t heard about his wanton murder of their fellow. He knew it was his imagination, but the constant droning from the box was intimidating; it felt personal; he wished he had a pair of gloves that would fit over his swollen hand.

“We’ll give them a little something to eat, until they settle down and start making their own food,” Yeardley had said, and poured a bowlful of clear syrup and set it inside the super. “They’re won’t be the least bit interested in us, unless they feel threatened, or we’re setting to rob them. Then they get a little testy, and who’s to blame them? Come on, I’ll show you how to smoke them.”

Yeardley loosened the lids of the other hives with small crow-bar, shooting in puffs of smoke from his smoker and checking the brood frames. Except for the one that had already swarmed, they were all crawling with excited bees.

“Just waiting for their visas to be stamped,” Yeardley said, as he closed the last deep. “Like to try a taste?”

“Why not?” John said. After all, it was only honey.

Yeardley opened the super on top and lifted out a frame filled with glistening honeycomb. “Good flow,” he approved, prizing out a glistening chunk with the tip of his knife and handing it to John.

That first taste was much of a shock as the sting had been. He hadn’t known honey could taste like sunshine, wind, meadowsweet and white clover. It left a hint of bitterness in it at the back of his tongue that spoke to the labor that had made it and the challenge of harvesting it.

That taste did what John had thought was impossible; it caught his attention.

Research had already told him that there were courses that he could take for a bee-keeper’s certificate on line. Would Yeardley sign off on the set questions…?

Grinning, Yeardley said yes.

John started working on immediately and his evening hours became filled with study. When he mentioned his new hobby to Lestrade, Lestrade wrote back, _Send me some?_ He replied, _Pooh!_

It turned that out most of the equipment he needed was already stored in the shed behind the barn; it only required cleaning. All he had to buy were a white suit and a silly hat with a veil.

But a bee’s multi-faceted eyes bees see vertical things, such as flowers, very easily. And they see things in motion, like a hand flailing at a bee trapped in the veiling of a silly hat, even more easily and much more quickly than a human ever can. The second sting felt like a hammer blow to the side of his head, with a nail in the head of the hammer.

He learned that a bee’s life—whether the bee were a queen, a worker, or a drone—is prescribed from birth to death. Honeybees are incredibly fastidious and mild creatures, unless the brood or the queen is threatened, and then they will bravely sacrifice their lives to defend them.

One day he caught himself thinking that Sherlock would have approved of bees without ever feeling the least need to emulate them. The sudden pain was almost as bad as the second sting had been.

As a doctor, he became curious about honey. Discovering it was full of anti-oxidants, amino acids, and vitamins, he started using raw honey in his tea, instead of sugar.

He developed respect for the industrious little pollinators and deep affection for their cousins, the solitary bumblebees, who kept him company on the days he mowed. He reset the blade to encourage the flowering cover they preferred and joined the Bumble Bee Conservation Trust.

One evening he was drinking from one of the blue cups and recognized the picture printed inside it: two men in front of a cottage similar to Bee Hive Cottage and that one of them was carrying an old fashioned woven bee hive called a skep. Curious, he looked up the pattern and discovered it was called ‘The Bee Master.’

Shortly after that, he discovered that you’ll never get propolis off of your pants, no matter often you wash them.

In June, he started planning a bee garden, to be ringed with stones, on the side of the cottage that got most sun. He began setting lavender. There was a long, hand-written letter from Mrs. Hudson who was seeing a psychic because, as she said, she kept sensing a _presence…_ Vaguely, John recalled something horrible about _elasticized liver_ , and wrote back suggesting that she check the refrigerator in the basement flat…something might have been accidently left.

She’d written back: _Oh, isn’t that just like him._

In July, he had a little more time on his hands and attended his first meeting of the Sussex Beekers.

In August, Lestrade came down for the week. It hadn’t worked out between Lestrade and Molly, and Lestrade was inclined to blub about it on the folding camp bed in front of the fireplace. Fortunately on Wednesday Emma Baker came by looking for a lost sheep. John introduced the two of them, something clicked and there was less whinging after that.

In September, he bottled his first honey.

In October, he prepped the hives for winter and was awarded his last certificate. He was a certified bee master.

In late November, it was lonely without the bees and Lestrade threatened to come back down. He emailed: _Don’t use me for an excuse!_ and started working part-time at a clinic in Exmouth.

At Christmas, there was a box of cookies, a muffler, and another long letter from Mrs. Hudson. She thanked him for the honey and said that the presence had _finally been dispelled_. Lestrade sent a book about the history of bee keeping. In the section on the mythology of bees, he learned that bees were a symbol of immortality and resurrection. And that you must always tell your bees everything that goes in the house.

That January and February, it was extraordinarily cold.

On the first reasonably warm day he went out to check hives and found that the five stacks furthest from the protection of the hill suspiciously quiet. Pulling off the lid, he discovered bees starved and frozen in the empty honey cells where they’d died trying to scavenge the last scrap of food. When too many of the workers die, there aren’t enough to keep the queen and colony alive. Even though he’d left the prescribed third of their honey, it hadn’t been enough, and he lost almost half of his hives.

He apologized profoundly to the survivors and started the empty hives over with mail-order bees. He began paying closer attention to articles on bee health, conning the alternative literature, and, after talking it over with Yeardley, installed a Warré hive in the bee garden.

Yeardley wasn’t crazy about newfangled things and, for Yeardley, newfangled was anything less than a hundred years old. John pointed out that people had been doing similar in Japan since the Edo period, and got an even terser comment about foreign doings. John pointed out that a Warré would allow the bees to construct a top-down hive that was more like one they might build in the wild. Yeardley acknowledged that, on consideration, it might be worth a try.

The bees took to the new hive. They started building free-form combs in the super. By August the stack was four deep.

That September, his local Beekers sponsored a honey fest on the grounds of one of the larger farms outside of Exmouth. On a whim, he entered three jars of honey from the Warré hive, and won a second place medal.

As he was leaving the barn afterward, carrying his silver medal and a bag of apples, he passed a picnic table by the door and the couple sitting there were patients of his at the clinic. He stopped to say hello and, while he was accepting congratulation on his win, overheard a radio nearby. A BBC announcer was saying something about the death of another Iranian physicist. _Another Iranian physicist?_ He hadn’t heard about a first one. With a shock, John realized that, even though he had the internet in the cottage, he browsed it the way a bee browses for flowers, going only to sites that interested him.

Before heading back to the cottage, he stopped in Exmouth and bought a radio that would pick up shortwave.

There was a brand new Range Rover with Government plates in the drive when he got home. A uniformed driver was leaning against the bonnet, reading a newspaper. The white on red headlines screamed _Showdown Looms?_ There was a cup and saucer from the blue set on the bonnet with a serviette underneath to protect the car’s glossy finish.

The name plate on the driver’s uniform said Swinburne, and he smiled as John stomped by him. “Nice day.”

Of course Mycroft had taken the one comfortable chair and the rest of John’s tea things were sitting out on a painted tray. He could see the wrapping from his last pack of digestive biscuits crumpled in the trash.

“Shall I tug my forelock?” John said, hanging his coat on the door peg.

“I’ve always been a respecter of tradition, but suit yourself,” Mycroft said. He was swirling a healthy glop of honey into a teacup. When he lifted it, he closed his eyes to drink in the aroma before sipping. “This is my third cup. I’m so glad you got some use out of those old books.”

“Not so much. No.”

Mycroft’s brows contracted, “But you’ve kept busy. You’ve learned about our local birds…”

“They’re starlings, Mycroft. Some places they’re considered pests. What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting my late brother’s dear friend. I just wanted to see how you’re getting on.”

“Mycroft, you didn’t come down here to see how I’m getting on.”

“In part I did. Have you always been this suspicious?”

“You’ve given me reason.”

Mycroft finished his tea, and said, “You’re a very fortunate man, John. But, I have to say, that I was hurt when you sent three jars of honey to Lestrade. Not even one for me? I hear you win prizes.”

“Tell you what; I’ll give you a jar to take with you when you go. Do you think Sergeant Swinburne would like one, as well?”

“I’m sure he would. You know I could almost see myself doing this, when I retire. _Apis Mellifera_ is the only honeybee kept by English beekeepers. Amazing, when you consider.”

“Isn’t it.”

“By the way, weren’t there four cups in this set?”

“No. Only three.”

When they’d gone, and he was cleaning up, the cup that Mycroft had drunk from accidently fell in the sink. It was too bad, but at least he didn’t have to wash it. He almost called a locksmith before realizing that changing the locks would be a futile gesture. At best.

He dreamed that night.

He’d had dreams like it before, most frequently in the months after he’d gotten out of the military hospital. They had always been a series of discrete scenes, like a silent movie trailer. First there were trucks in the road with their canvas panels flapping behind them. There were white tipped mountains in the distance against a leaden sky. Then there would be a bright ball of flame.

He was always running in those dreams. Bending over broken bodies. Working frantically. Sometimes there would be a hand clinging to his. There was always bright red blood.

This time was different.

This time the dream featured a slender figure standing on the edge of a building with the skirts of a black coat fluttering against a grey sky. Then there was a body sprawled and broken on the wet flagging below. John saw himself running; bike careening into him. He felt himself strike the pavement. He rolled over, staggered to his feet, and fought his way through the crowd to seize hold of a still-warm hand.

He clung as hard as he could, but they’d been pulled apart as the body was lifted onto a gurney and trundled down the road.

The crowd melted away, and the only thing left was blood pooled on grey stone.

John woke with sheets damp from sweat, staring at his hand. He could still feel the grip of those fingers. Dead fingers don’t clutch.

Flickering and fleeting is how a bee sees the world. He picked up his morning cup, went out and told them all about it.

“I laid it out for Ella, step by step. The phone call. The apology. The flailing arms. It was five stories! No one could possibly survive a fall from that height.” But dead fingers don’t clutch.

Dead fingers don’t clutch.

That evening, acting on an impulse, he called Lestrade and invited him down for the second weekend in October.  

The two of them got drunk at the kitchen table on a bottle of Yeardley mead and the subject of relationships came up: why do they fail?

They agreed that it was because people aren’t honest. But not whether total honesty was necessarily a good thing. They agreed that it should be. But what about certain truths like ‘I’m having an affair,’ or ‘I can’t leave my wife.’ Or ‘You’re an ice-cold manipulating bastard!’ Truths that don’t do any real harm, but might make another person feel bad. Maybe those are best kept to yourself. And, certainly, there are truths that can kill. What kind of truths kill? State Secrets. Objectively, State Secrets are more important than hurt feelings. Shouldn’t tell those. Definitely keep your lip zipped. But what about big honking paradigm-shifting truths that make you question the very nature of reality itself? Like Bush organized 9/11! Yes! No! Wait! Have you gone spare? Like the concept of matter/anti-matter. If you mean a man can be in two places at the same time—that's not a truth, that’s a theory. But reality is only a theory we all agree on! Isn’t it…?

They’d both started laughing and then fell quiet. Reaching out to refill their glasses, it occurred to John that it was actually strange to find them were smiling companionably at each other. Because one truth was that the two of them had one thing, and on thing only, in common. And they hadn’t agreed about that.

Lestrade gave a him cheeky grin, and John recalled a line from a cheesy country and western song _You’re not my type, but I guess you’ll do._

And, yes, there was some fumbled groping, later, but the hangover had been ferocious and the next day Lestrade had gone over to see Emma.

Maybe reality was only a shared delusion, but he started leaving the radio on—for the classical music and the news.

He started dreaming more and sometimes when he woke with wet sheets, it wasn’t because of a nightmare.

There was no moon the night the first autumnal storm blew in. It was darkness, rain, more rain, gusts of wind, and spates of thunder and lightning. He put a space heater by his desk and spent the evening setting up the schedule for winterizing the hives, and listening to the World Service report a chain of terrorist cells had been broken up in the mid-east.

It had seemed like the storm was moving off when the lights went out. Since there was never any knowing how long it would be before the power would be restored, he folded the laptop and got up to get the battery lantern from under the kitchen sink.

It was the penultimate flash of lightning, white and black, that revealed the figure of a man standing out by the bee garden.

As the slow rumbling trailed away, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. That was another legacy of the war; the hair on the back of his neck was bristling.

He backed into the kitchen, and found the LED torch in the drawer where he kept it on purpose near the back door. He slipped outside, ran to the corner of the house, and pointed his head around. The last flash showed him that the man hadn’t moved.

Stepping around, he called in a sentry’s voice, “Oi! Who’s there?” and turned on the beam.

“Hello, John,” said Sherlock Holmes.

Rain was dripping from short spikes of flattened hair, and the face was thinner. But there were the same high forehead, and the same eyes: pale grey, and as clear as glass.

“So Moriarty was telling the truth, after all; the key-code was real.” John said.

He didn’t expect an answer; Sherlock didn’t disappoint him.

They stared at each other, getting wetter, until John said, “Want to come in for a cuppa, then?”

“Ta. Much.”

Neither of them moved.

“The torch, John,” Sherlock finally said.

“What about it?”

“You’re blinding me.” The pupils of Sherlock’s eyes had shrunk to pinpoints.

“Sorry.” John flicked off of the light. “That’s right. You said you’d like some tea.” Inside, he shut the door and flicked the switch up and down before remembering it was a useless exercise. “Stay where you are,” he said, “I’ve rearranged the furniture.”

It was deeply disturbing to stand in the dark smelling wet cedar bracken and boiled wool and, underneath those odors, one that he’d known so intimately for such a brief time. Half way to the sink, he recalled that the torch was still in his hand, and turned it on. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know where I’ll put my head next.”

He got out the battery lantern and set it up on the table. The thing cast a narrow circle of harsh white light, but it was enough to see to get the kettle on. While he took care of that and measured tea, Sherlock took off the black pea coat he was wearing and hung it up on the back of the door.

Even in the shadows, John could see that he was holding his arm more stiffly than before.

“For God’s sake,” he said, “sit down.”

“I came across the fields; I’m soaking wet.”

“You should have called, I would have driven.”

“I wanted to see you as soon as possible.”

The teacup in John’s hand fell and shattered. Suddenly he was freezing. His knees folded. He sat down on one of the chairs, and shook.

Sherlock started cleaning up the mess.

“Don’t,” John said. “Fine in a tic.”

Sherlock ignored him, sweeping up the shards of china. Then he filled a coffee mug with tea and placed it in front of John. “Drink it.”

“Englishman’s panacea,” John said, “hot tea and honey. Sugar for shock.”

“You’re babbling.”

John tried to, but when he picked up the mug his hand was shaking too badly. Tea slopped and burned his fingers. He set it down with a thump. “Sorry.”

Sherlock went to his knees on the floor beside him. He wrapped his fingers around John’s, and helped him lift it to his mouth.

John got half of it down, and then said, “I’ve got it,” and Sherlock let go.

He put the mug down, and concentrated on breathing. After a bit, he realized that his already damp corduroys were getting damper; Sherlock was lying cross his lap with his head on his knees. John gave the rough velvet head a clumsy pat. “Snakes and Ladders,” he said.

“Toss me on my ear,” Sherlock said. “Do anything you like, but don’t be cryptic.”

“D-didn’t you play it with…no, of course you d-didn’t. Where you throw a die and m-move a marker. If you land on a square at the bottom of a ladder, you can go up. If you land on a snake’s head, you slide down, and s-start over. Whoever gets to the end first, wins.”

“The snake doesn’t bite you?”

“No. If the snake bit you, you’d be dead. You can’t start over when you’re dead.”

“Not if the snake wasn’t poisonous.”

“Don’t.”

“I don’t’ get it.”

“You don’t get it, because it’s fun. This hasn’t been fun. Tell me it was worth it.”

“I can’t.” The arms around John’s thighs tightened. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me you _believe_ it was worth it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s all right then,” he said.

“Can we go to bed?” Sherlock sighed. “I’m so tired. I’ll tell you everything I can in the morning.”

“Long as you understand this isn’t over.”

“Yes, Da.” Sherlock got up, pulling John with him. “Spank me tomorrow.”

“Don’t tempt me,” John said, picking up the lantern.

He carried it upstairs, and put it on the nightstand.

They undressed in the shadows, and climbed into bed naked. Sherlock fit his body to John’s and fell asleep as if he’d never been gone; it took John longer. The body against him felt too thin and hard. Close physical intimacy was a thing he was no longer used to. When he did fall asleep, though, he wasn’t aware of the springs squeaking once.

He woke to pale sunlight and someone’s breathing tickling his forehead. The power had come back on; the room was warm.

He must have moved; Sherlock sighed in his sleep, and turned on his back. John levered himself to an elbow, and took the opportunity to look over how pitifully thin he’d become. The scars on his chest and shoulder were several months old; probably caused by shell fragments. The angry red color would fade in time.

Nature, and his professional instincts, forced him out of bed.After making use of the loo, he dressed himself in yesterday’s clothes, and went downstairs.

Happily, he’d done a shop earlier in the week, and there was a fresh loaf. While the tea steeped, he made toast, slathering slices with butter as they popped. When he’d done half the loaf, he added a honey pot to the tray and took it up to the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting up.

“Start with this,” John said, putting it on the nightstand. “I’ll fry up some bacon and eggs in a bit. Remind me to check that shoulder, later.”

He turned to go; Sherlock looked up from reaching for a mug.

“You’re not staying?”

“I have to go check the hives.” It wasn’t true, but it was a good excuse; he took the last cup from the Bee Master set out with him.

There was still frost in the shadows of the humps, but the sun was drying the grass and bees were launching themselves off on cleansing flights.

“You know what they say about being careful what you ask for?” he said, out loud. “I asked him not to be dead. Now, what am I supposed to do?”

He listened for the oracle, but the bees were silent. What he heard was Sherlock coming up behind him, and he didn’t bother turning around.

“John, are you all right?”

“No. No, I’m not. How do I even know it’s you standing there? I saw you fall, remember? That was smart, by the way, how could I doubt what I’d seen with my own eyes?”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded young and lost. “People were watching. A combat physician, of all people, should know the difference between a living man, and a dead one.”

“So even my therapist was compromised.”

“You had to be convinced, if you were going to be convincing.

“I get it. What you mean is that no matter how much you want me, what Mycroft wants always comes first.”

“No. The assurance of your safety was Mycroft’s part of the bargain.”

“You can’t stand each other, but I’m the one that gets benched. You have any idea how that feels?”

“No. But Mycroft…is Mycroft. Until that changes…”

“I get it! At least apologize for knocking me down in the road.”

“I told you to stay where you were.”

“Apologize.”

“You might have been killed! And, if you had, I…” It sounded as if Sherlock weren’t sure what should come next. “And I…”

“You what?”

“I…”

“Say it!”

“I couldn’t have borne it.”

John’s hand shot to his mouth. It felt like ice cracking inside.

“Is that how it works? I can’t change, John”

“But I have!”

John rounded on Sherlock to tell him how much he had changed. He meant tell him to go back London, and get the hell out of the life that John had made without him…

Sherlock was standing barefoot in the wet grass, wearing a blanket like a toga.

All John could think to say was, “You’re going to freeze your feet.”

Sherlock looked so much as he had the day they’d gone to Buckingham Palace, with Sherlock in a sheet, and filched one of HMQ’s ashtrays. In fact, John still had the ashtray. It was in the sitting room next to his laptop, full of ashes; surprising Mycroft had never confiscated it.

Sherlock finished the toast, and began to lick the honey that had dripped down his wrist.

“Are you out of your mind?” John said. A scout had already buzzed over his shoulder.  

“Sorry. I’m hungry,” Sherlock said, catching the look on John’s face. “And my clothes are still wet.”

“Move!” he shouted. “Get moving! Go! Do you want to get stung?”

Like a sheepdog, he herded Sherlock back into the house, up the stairs, and back under the covers. Throwing himself on top, he said, “I should have taken Mycroft out and shown him the hives.”

“Mycroft was here?” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“In September. Pass that over,” John said, reaching for the plate of buttered toast.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, taking another piece before, passing the plate. “He hates it here.”

“Really? He told me he thought he might like to keep bees, someday.”

“When pigs fly!” For a while the only sound was two men eating. Finally, when most of the toast was gone, Sherlock started eating honey from the pot with a spoon. “Still mad?” he said.

John considered the question. The anger was still there, but underneath it was a tiny bright feeling that he recognized. “Give me time,” he said.

“We can stay here for a while, if you’d like.”

“I would. Fatten you up. Not sure if I like having a coat rack cuddling up to me.”

“This is good. Is there more?” Sherlock said, sucking on the spoon. “Anyway we’re going to have to work out how to explain me being alive to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

“Don’t worry,” John said. “Neither one of them was convinced you were really dead.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Impossible.”

John shrugged and reached across Sherlock’s stomach for the last butter-soaked slice of toast. He concentrated on chewing until Sherlock nudged him. “Go on.”

“With what?”

“What you were saying about neither Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade believing I was dead.”

“Oh, sorry. Mrs. Hudson kept having these dreams. She consulted a professional psychic, who told her that he could sense that your spirit hovering outside a monastery in Tibet.” Sherlock smirked. John twiddled two fingers in front of his nose. “Stop that. I don’t think that’s what he intended, but Mrs. H took it to mean you were alive. You know what it's like getting a notion out of that woman's head once it's stuck there.”

“So what did Lestrade consult? His Magic 8 Ball?”

“No. We were drinking one night and he asked me if I thought you were capable of faking your own death. I had to say that, if anybody was, it was you.”

“Well, yes, but what made him ask in the first place?”

“He noticed that Molly Hooper wore a pink blouse at the funeral.”

“And a black skirt, and a black hat with netting. Very proper.”

“Exactly! But when he called her a few weeks later… Wait a minute, _you went to your own funeral!_ ”

“It might be the only chance I’ll ever have. I was the bearded old book dealer at the back.” Sherlock's spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. “Why did Lestrade call Molly?”

“He wanted to comfort her.”

“Comfort Molly Hooper?”

“She was in love with you. And, for your information Lestrade is very good at comforting people.”

The nerve shredding sound of metal on glass stopped. Sherlock's eyebrow rose as he looked hard at John. “I don’t think I like where this going.”

“Women,” John said. “He’s very good comforting heart broken women.”

“I’m sure.” There was still a suspicious squint in Sherlock’s eyes. “ Go on, you were saying, what was the big revelation? What made him twig?”

“She wore a green dress when he asked her out to dinner.”

There was more spoon sucking as Sherlock transferred the squint to an old mezzotint of Chinese Gordon hanging on the wall over the fireplace. The paper was badly foxed, but John had never bothered taking it down. Finally, Sherlock said, “That makes no sense, whatsoever.”

“Really? You wouldn’t have found it the least bit odd that a highly romantic female pathologist, who has just performed an autopsy on a man with whom she has been hopelessly in love for years, doesn’t even appear to be mourning him?”

“What does the color of her dress have to do with it?”

“Green is not a color that screams heartbreak,” John pointed out. “Lestrade said it was almost as if she didn't think you were dead.”

A look of disgust came over Sherlock's face and he drew his head back like a turtle retreating to its shell.

“Neither you, nor Mycroft, saw _that_ coming did you? Don’t worry; Lestrade didn’t follow up on it. I’m only saying it because, while no one listens to old ladies who get their cards read, even you have to admit that he's actually good at his job.”

“Oh, for… No! I do not! That is not deductive reasoning, that's just soppy!”

“It's intuition. Admit it, if Lestrade had wanted to make a fuss…”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind!”

“Then kiss me,” John said.

Sherlock put the spoon and jar down and, for once, he didn’t argue, or quibble. It was amazing where crumbs and honey had gotten to.

Laying sleepily in the tangle of sheets and legs afterwards, John whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not being dead.”

“Is there any more honey?” Sherlock said.

End  
9 April 2012

**Author's Note:**

> "The Bee Master's Pattern" was written as a part of the 2012 sherlock_remix. The author wishes to thank Tryfanstone, who read and britpicked far beyond the call, as well as Megankent and Twistedchick for the beta readings and very valuable comments.


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